“Never you mind the terms of our agreement,” Ness retorted indignantly. “The fact is I agreed to give the man the money. I was doing him a favour, regardless of anything else.”
“Let me guess,” the sheriff smirked, holding the abbot’s eye. “You agreed to loan the man some money, with an exorbitant interest rate, and if he failed to repay you within say…three years…he would forfeit his manor to you. Am I close?”
“You may mock, de Faucumberg,” the abbot replied patiently. “But the Church is not made out of money. I made Lord de Bray a loan – if he chose to pay a little extra as a donation to the Church, that would be perfectly legal, as you well know.”
“Save your sermon for the pulpit, abbot,” the sheriff grinned, spilling wine down the sides of his lips as the alcohol started to take effect. “You wanted to line your own pockets – I’m sure you weren’t planning on sending any of this ‘donation’ to the Pope. Get to the point, man. You agreed to loan this fool some money, yes? So what’s the problem?”
“The problem, sheriff,” the abbot spat out the word with sarcasm equal to de Faucumberg’s own, “is that Robin Hood and his gang of wolf’s heads waylaid the men I sent to Hathersage with the money! While you mess about with your falcons, or sit in this castle with your finger up your arse, Robin Hood is spending my two hundred pounds!”
De Faucumberg had leaned forward in his chair angrily as the abbot delivered his rant, but he sat back, open-mouthed, when he heard the amount of money Hood and his men had made off with.
There was silence for a time, the two men brooding into their expensive wine.
“No wonder this boy has become a folk hero,” the sheriff finally grunted. “He’s the king of outlaws. The man’s rich!”
“Exactly!” Ness roared. “And it’s all my money!”
The sheriff didn’t even bother retorting. He was too stunned at what he was hearing. The more he thought about it the more he knew something had to be done, whether it was the middle of winter or not. King Edward would eventually hear of this. Abbot Ness had probably already sent a messenger to London with his complaints.
The king would expect his servant, Sir Henry de Faucumberg, Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, to do something about this. Or His Grace would find a replacement for the sheriff, just as he had a couple of years before when de Faucumberg had been charged with extortion . . .
“What is it, exactly, you want, abbot?” de Faucumberg asked, all trace of humour gone. “I’ve only just got my job back, and I’d like to keep it this time.”
“I want that bastard Hood hunted down like the animal he is – his men too!” the abbot ranted. “And I want my money returned to me!”
The sheriff sat deep in thought for a while, while the abbot continued to throw wine down his neck in a black rage.
“It’s about time for dinner, my lord abbot,” de Faucumberg finally said to his guest. “Let me think on this for a time. I’ll come up with something.”
In truth, the sheriff could see no way to track down such a well-trained gang of outlaws, in a forest they knew better than anyone, in the darkest depths of winter. It simply wasn’t possible.
There was only one way Sir Henry de Faucumberg could think of to solve this problem…
* * *
The sun tried to force its way through the thick blanket of fog and snow shrouding Wakefield as the outlaws – Robin, Will, John, Matilda and Much, made their way through the uncharacteristically quiet streets. Frost lay thickly on window ledges, and the smell of wood smoke filled the air as the villagers tried to warm their homes with blazing fires.
The mist muffled the sounds of those people who were working – even the metallic sounds from the blacksmith’s workshop seemed weirdly stunted as the man saw them and gave a small smile in greeting, the only person in the village sweating on such a cold day as his furnace continued to turn out horse shoes and arrow heads.
“Christ, the people look grim,” Little John muttered, giving the blacksmith a wave in return.
“The people are starving,” Will replied softly. He nodded towards the smith who had turned back to his anvil, his thick arms cording with muscle as he hammered a horse shoe into shape. “The big man’s children are probably at home crying because their bellies are empty. You wouldn’t be laughing either.”
“Well their bellies will be filled today,” Robin growled, dismayed at the sight of the people he’d grown up around suffering impotently, the effects of another poor harvest and spiralling food prices taking their toll on all but the wealthier people of England.
They trudged through the thick snow, their feet making dry crunching sounds, and every now and again one would slip as their sodden shoes lost grip on the hard-packed surface. John led a pair of docile horses, their harnesses jingling quietly but, apart from the occasional snort, they were nearly silent as the fully laden cart they pulled slid through the snow slowly, leaving deep tracks to mark their passage.
A small crowd began to form behind them, the villagers throwing on their thickest cloaks to brave the cold and see what was happening.
They arrived at the village green and stopped, John holding old apples up for the horses to eat as he grinned and stroked their manes, mumbling soft inanities to them. Robin couldn’t help smiling at the sight of his giant friend – so terrifying when angered or in battle – yet so placid and gentle otherwise.
The young wolf’s head blew on his hands and nimbly climbed on top of the wagon, careful not to lose his footing on the frost and dusting of snow that had covered it.
He waited as more villagers joined the chattering throng, smiling and waving as he saw his father, John, pushing his way through to the front of the villagers who deferentially moved aside, recognising him, then Robin raised his huge archer’s arms.
“Friends!” he roared, looking around at the people with a smile. “How are you?”
“Fucking hungry!” someone shouted in reply and there were smiles and grim laughs at that.
Robin nodded as the crowd fell silent again, wondering what he would say. “I know your bellies are empty, while some of our ‘betters’ hoard food!”
There was a chorus of angry shouts at that.
“I won’t waste time with a speech,” Robin cried, shaking his head. “We’ve brought you a present, courtesy of Lord John de Bray of Hathersage.” He leaned down and pulled off the blanket covering the wagon, making sure he tugged it hard as the frost had hardened it in place.
The wagon was filled with barrels and crates. “Smoked and salted fish and meat. Dried and honey preserved fruit. Vegetables in brine. Cheese!” Robin raised his voice, grinning as the gathered people started to chatter excitedly, their mouths watering, as he pointed at the containers on the cart.
“Henry!” he shouted towards the village headman who had also been allowed to push his way to the front of the gathering. “There’s not enough here to see everyone through the winter with a belly like a priest,” he paused to let the smiling people cheer at his joke, “but if you ration it, it will make life a lot easier – and tastier! – for everyone.” He held his hands high in the air again as everyone cheered then, with a laugh, cried, “Enjoy!” and jumped to the snow beside the other outlaws.
The crowd surged forward as if they would ransack the wagon, but John, Much and Will Scarlet drew their swords menacingly and roared at them to get back, telling the people to be patient.
Henry organised a party of guards from the villagers to look after the wagon until the contents could be organised and doled out or stored, and the villagers began to chant. “Hood! Hood! Hood!”
The outlaws smiled happily, pleased at their day’s work, and Robin felt a lump in his throat as the people he had grown up with chanted his name in grateful appreciation. His eyes welled up at the thought of these good people being so hungry that a wagon load of food would bring them so much happiness and he quickly pulled his proudly smiling father aside.
“Come on,” he shouted over the
chanting crowd. “Let’s go home. I’ve got some things here special.” He pulled a sack from the wagon over his shoulder and nodded to the other outlaws who waved or smiled in reply and moved off to carry out whatever tasks they had planned. Matilda, Will and Much hefted sacks of their own for friends and family, while John had arrows, bread, spices and other provisions to stock up on.
“How’s Marjorie?” Robin asked his father as they left the happy crowd behind and headed for their own modest house a short way off.
John shook his head sadly. “She’s weak,” he admitted. “She always has been, ever since…” His voice tailed off. Even after all these years, the passing of his other daughter still hurt terribly – he thought of Rebekah every single day, wondering what she’d be like now, hating himself at times for not being able to provide food for his family, even though he knew it hadn’t been his fault – no one had any food back then, it had been much worse than it was now. But the thought of Marjorie maybe going the same way – starving – devastated him.
Robin patted him on the back reassuringly. “She’ll be fine. I’ve brought good food for her – food fit for a lord of Hathersage!”
They smiled and pushed on through the snow until they reached the family home and made their way inside gratefully, the cosy fire warming their exposed faces and hands.
Robin’s mother smiled in surprise at the sight of her beloved son and gave him a tight hug as John began telling her about his performance on the wagon.
Marjorie lay in bed, which had been made up close to the fire. Robin was shocked at the sight of his little sister – always thin, but now she had nothing on her, skin stretched tightly over her small frame. He had learned how to act though – how to hide his emotions and appear tougher than he really way – during his time with the outlaws, and he smiled at the girl as if nothing was wrong.
“Look what I’ve got for you!” he grinned, dropping his heavy sack on the floor and pulling a jar of honeyed apples from it. “And that’s not all!” He emptied the food onto the ground as his family laughed and gasped. “Here,” Robin handed his sister a piece of cheese and her eyes lit up as she bit into it.
“It’s wonderful!” she gasped, her hollow cheeks screwing up slightly at the bitter, but delicious taste.
Robin piled small pieces of food onto Marjorie’s bed until his mother stopped him. “That’s enough for now,” she scolded. “Too much of this and she’ll be sick or it’ll run right through her – that won’t do her any favours!”
Marjorie smiled at her mother’s fussing, but they knew she was right, so most of the food was taken to be stored away in the darkest, coldest part of the house, in a hole in the ground. Normally it would be stored outside, where it was even colder and the food would last longer, but in these hard times even the best neighbours might steal another’s provisions for their own family.
“You sit by the fire with your sister and da,” Martha ordered imperiously.
Although Robin was by now used to telling men what to do, he still automatically followed his mother’s hard stare and commanding tone, dropping with a smile into an old chair as his father poured him a mug of warm ale from a jug next to the fire.
“Now, I’ll make us a nice meal from some of this salted pork you’ve brought,” Martha nodded appreciatively, lifting some meat along with an apple and some spices. “And you can tell us how you managed to find all this food.”
Robin took a long pull of his ale, grinning in satisfaction at his sister as the liquid warmed his belly and he began the tale of the raid on Lord John de Bray’s manor house.
It was good to be home with his family, even if only for a short while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was dark in the greenwood. A cloudy night, so the temperature wasn’t too low. The young outlaw leader and his wife were in their makeshift bed in the big cave the gang were using to sleep in during the coldest winter nights. Outside the cave the other outlaws were sitting round the great campfire enjoying a supper of venison they had caught that day. They were roasting cuts of the meat on arrows held by hand over the fire, drinking ale and telling ghost stories. Matilda had gone off to bed early, and, sensing her low mood, Robin had followed her into the dimly lit cave.
He lay down beside her on their pallet, and pulled their thick, cosy blankets over them both, cuddling her in tight, sharing their body heat in the bitter night.
“I can’t live like this, Robin.”
The young outlaw raised himself up on an elbow and shook his head at his wife, holding an arm out in despair, casting great twisted shadows on the walls in the dim light from the braziers they used to keep the cave from freezing during the nights.
“What are we to do, Matilda? We’re both outlaws. We’re lucky-”
“Lucky?” the girl cried. “How are we lucky? Hunted like animals, until the weather’s too cold even for the foresters to come out in? The threat of arrest, imprisonment, death, always over us every day we wake up? And you call that ‘lucky’?” Her voice, which had been rising in both pitch and volume tailed off into a strangled whisper, tears running down her cheeks.
Robin pulled her in close and they held each other tightly for a while.
“I miss my ma and da,” Matilda sobbed.
“I know,” Robin replied. “I miss my parents, too. And Will misses little Beth. But at least we all still have those people and we still see them when we visit Wakefield. Much’ll never see his da again, after the bailiff killed him . . .”
Matilda didn’t reply, so he forged on. “We are lucky. Most outlaws have no chance – either the law gets them or the weather or hunger does. We have a group of friends here to look after us, plenty of food, money, warm shelters and caves to sleep in…things could be a lot worse.” He leaned away from her, his earnest face shadowed in the brazier’s orange glow, and took her hands in his. “I know this isn’t what you dreamed of when you thought of marriage but it’ll get better one day, I swear it will.”
His young wife wiped her face and smiled prettily. “At least we have each other,” she said, squeezing his hands.
“Exactly!” Robin laughed and gave her a quick kiss, but his face fell as he saw her expression drop again.
“I just don’t think I can live like this much longer,” she told him. “I thought I was tough. I’ve seen my share of violence and cruelty – Christ, haven’t we all? But that day we robbed the priests…the killing and violence…And I never even killed anyone! How will I feel when I do?”
Robin stayed silent. He was surprised at Matilda’s despair though. He’d known her all his life. She had seen much death and hardship in Wakefield growing up. He knew she was a strong young woman and he’d expected her to deal with life in the greenwood a little better.
He looked closely at her, seeing the tears still streaming for her eyes. “What’s really wrong, Matilda?” he asked gently.
The girl’s face crumpled as she looked at him. “I’m so frightened Robin, I can’t live in this forest forever… I’m pregnant.”
Robin lay in stunned silence for a while, completely lost for words. He knew enough to understand Matilda was expecting a reaction though, so he gave her a grin and hugged her in close before she took his silence the wrong way.
She smiled through her tears and gently broke his embrace. “You’re happy, then?”
“Of course, I am!” He smiled, but his face soon became solemn, and he nodded at his wife. “I understand why you’re so worried now. The forest is no place to bring a baby into the world. Are you sure about it though? How can you tell, you don’t look any bigger…”
“I know, Robin. You might not be able to see it, but women have ways of knowing. Here.” She grasped his hand and pressed it against her right breast. “Feel it?”
He gave a gentle squeeze and nodded, before trying the other one. “They feel heavier,” he said, pressing his body against his wife’s without even thinking about it.
“Robin!” she laughed in mock indignation, p
ulling away from him and the slowly hardening bulge between his legs. “Not now!”
She had brightened considerably on sharing her secret, but Matilda grasped her husband’s hand fretfully, and wondered what they were going to do.
“I don’t know,” Robin admitted. “But we’ll think of something.”
They smiled at each other and lay back, quietly, for a while, minds racing with thoughts of parenthood.
Eventually, the campfire burned low, the pork and apples, ale and ghost stories were done, and the rest of the outlaws came to bed. Only the sentries on the first watch – and a thoughtful Robin – remained awake in the freezing December forest.
* * *
“You’re up at last, then!”
Henry de Faucumberg grimaced as the abbot’s loud voice rang through the hall. He waved a dismissive hand at the smiling clergyman who seemed no worse the wear for the previous day’s wine.
“You’re in a good mood, Ness,” the sheriff grunted, as he sat down for breakfast opposite his guest. “No hangover?” He reached for a piece of bread and forced down a mouthful, glaring at the abbot.
“Hangover?” The clergyman laughed. “I’m a devout Christian – all things in moderation. You should take a leaf from my book. Greed is a sin, especially when it comes to wine.”
De Faucumberg leaned over and grabbed the cup from the abbot’s hand. He took a sip and smirked at the furious abbot. “This is wine, you pious oaf. No wonder you’re feeling so bright.”
Ness snatched his cup back and took a mouthful. “Have you decided what to do about Robin Hood and his outlaw gang, yet?” he demanded, slamming down his cup and tearing off a great chunk of bread.
“I have.” The sheriff, filling a cup with watered wine of his own, forced down a long pull and stuffed more of his bread into his wet mouth. “I don’t see any way to hunt down the outlaws in the middle of winter.” He held up a hand to silence the protesting abbot. “It’s not possible, Ness, not with the men I have. I’d need an army to find and kill those outlaws, and, given what’s been happening recently with the Earl of Lancaster and his friends, well – the king’s not about to send me resources to waste on hunting down a handful of criminals, is he?”
Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord) Page 27